


And So It Goes

by sealdog



Category: Borderlands
Genre: F/F, M/M, background Athena/Janey, implied past Jack/Rhys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6582496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealdog/pseuds/sealdog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You’re Timothy Lawrence, right?”</p><p>“I- yeah. Yeah, that’s me,” Timothy says slowly. “Who are you, and why do you know that…why do you know my name?”</p><p>“I’m…someone who can help. My name is Rhys.”</p><p>---</p><p>Post TFTBL ep5. Rhys tries to fix the things Jack fucked up while he was alive. Timothy makes a new life on a farm. At some point, they attend a wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThirtySixSaveFiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/gifts).



> Written for a prompt "♧: One character playing with the other's hair, Rhys/Timothy" from @thirtysixsavefiles. It was gonna be short but...shit happened /claws face
> 
> There's a sliiiiiiight consent-iffy tiny scene in the middle between Timothy and Rhys and (sort of) Jack. Spoilery deets in end notes if you need.
> 
> unbeta-ed, lmk if u find typos and shit, or if i need to tag anything.

Down on Pandora, Handsome Jack’s death had been a cause of celebration; festivals and parties had gone across the many, many villages that had endured Jack’s tyranny. Timothy doesn’t blame them. However, his own reaction to Jack’s death had been rather different. It’s not like he’d expected that he could just waltz right back into Helios and Jack would welcome him with open arms, not when he’d broken his contract after the whole vault shebang, and run away to bandit-planet.

Still, some part of him had kinda always hoped he could get back up there to reverse the surgery or something, get his face back, maybe be able to get supplies from the nearest town without having to cover his face up.

What? It gets _hot_ down on Pandora, okay?

So when news of Jack’s death had gone around, Timothy had sighed, rubbed at his stupid face, and adjusted his plans. Maybe now, instead of having to beg for mercy on his knees in front of Jack, he could find whoever had taken over power in Helios, and convince them that it was in their best interests not to have someone with Jack’s face running around. Either he’d go with the whole “It’s really disrespectful to have a man’s face after he’s dead, especially since he was such a _hero_ when alive and all” shtick, or the “You don’t want anybody thinking Jack might be back, do you?” shtick, depending on whether or not the new and no doubt equally tyrannical leader had been one of Jack’s many cronies, or one of his even more numerous rivals. And either way, Timothy would have to do a lot of fast-talking to convince them that simply killing him would _not_ be the best idea.

Luckily for him, pretending to be Jack had been one long and unending exercise in fast-talking.

Yay.

But then there’s all that _planning_ to do, like finding a shuttle that would bring him up, and saving up all that money to bribe his way onto the shuttle, and it was really just a lot easier to keep fishing and farming on his little plot of land by the sea, and leave all that stuff for the indeterminate future. Plus, the bar in the nearby town does poetry nights on Thursdays, and those expensive four years in college are _finally_ beginning to pay off in free drinks and food. Even if Timothy has to bring it all home in a bag instead of sitting around to enjoy the company, because he has the face of a _mass murdering maniac_.

Then one day, Timothy’s out fishing and contemplating switching things up and going with a dactylic meter instead of the usual iambic meter he sticks to (the gunsmith’s apprentice is an upstart little _pimple_ who’d accused Timothy of being incapable of breaking from common poetic conventions. The _cheek_ of the little dipshit!) when the sky rumbles rather alarmingly.

When he looks up, Helios is falling.

“Aw, crap.”

Once the dust has settled, and the gossip has made its way up to the ass-end of the continent that Timothy’s made his farm in, he gloomily resigns himself to having the face of an asshole for the rest of his life. On the upside, according to the plastic surgeons, he’s not likely to get wrinkles for the next forty years or so.

Double yay.

And naturally, because Timothy’s life has been a series of shitty luck and bad timing and even worse choices, that’s when life, that giant cosmic bag of dicks, flings one last handful of turds into his face.

This time, the handful of turds takes the form of a tall, slim stranger knocking at his door. A tall, slim stranger in a really nice suit, and with the most haunted expression Timothy has ever seen.

“Uh. Hi?” Timothy looks the man up and down, frowning. Something about him looks familiar, but the way he’s staring at Timothy, stricken and sad and hopeful all at once, is making it hard for Timothy to place where he’s seen him before. “Can I…help you?”

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s not wearing the usual scarf over his face, because he’d been weeding, and seriously, Pandora gets _so hot_. He glances down to double check that he’s at least wearing pants this time. He is, luckily. Patchy, dirt-stained ones, but at least he’s wearing pants.

Oh, oh _god_ why is he worrying about his _pants_? Clearly this person knew Jack; Timothy has way bigger problems right now.

“Uh…I’m really not who you think I am!” Timothy blurts out, backing away slowly. There’s a shotgun behind the door, loathe as Timothy is to use it on such a nice suit.

“No, it’s okay!” The stranger breaks out of his stupor, shaking his head apologetically. “Sorry, I knew you were- I just didn’t think you would look _so much_ like him.”

“Yeah?” Timothy says warily, not at all assured. “Well, I’m not. Sorry to disappoint you, but if you want your revenge on Handsome Jack, the dude’s long dead. Go find a statue to punch or something, they’re everywhere.”

A complicated expression passes over the man’s face. “I…I know,” he says. “I didn’t come here looking for Jack, I came here looking for _you_. You’re Timothy Lawrence, right?”

It’s been so long since he heard that name that it takes Timothy a while to remember that it’s _his_ name.

“I- yeah. Yeah, that’s me,” Timothy says slowly. “Who are you, and why do you know that…why do you know my name?”

“I’m…someone who can help. My name is Rhys.”

\---

Timothy never gets the full story, doesn’t know what drives Rhys to travel around the galaxies making amends for the individuals Jack’s fucked over, or how exactly Rhys has access to all this info that’s _definitely_ not in the official records, but he thinks he can understand, kind of. Sometimes he catches Rhys staring at him, staring at his face, with a look that’s almost hungry, and Timothy doesn’t know if it’s pity he feels in response, or a kind of kindred empathy. Maybe both. Jack does that to people.

Oh yeah, the face.

It turns out that the plastic surgery would take _a lot_ of resources to reverse, like way more than even Rhys has as the CEO of the newly rebuilt Atlas, and even then, Rhys cautions Timothy against keeping his hopes up for getting his original face back. Given the choice between possibly ending up looking like a half-cooked turkey killed while taking a shit, (Rhys’ words. The guy has the _weirdest_ similes ever.) and keeping the face of a tyrannical megalomaniac who is finally beginning to fade out of people’s memories…yeah. Timothy’s gonna take his chances with the second one.

“Well, I guess that’s that, then.” Rhys says, and gathers up the papers he’s spread out over the dinky, lopsided table in Timothy’s living room. “Do you maybe wanna keep these? In case you ever change your mind.”

The papers on the desk are a mix of medical records, official looking forms, and photo predictions of what his face could look like, if he went through the reversal surgery. Timothy reaches out, and picks up one of the photos, a grainy, too-magnified photo of his old face, found in the background of a photo in an article about the new campus building in his university, years and years ago. The new building had a nice café on the first floor, Timothy remembers.

“Is it okay if I just keep this one?”

“Yeah, of course, you-” Rhys clears his throat, and looks away. “No problem.”

Timothy takes the photo with hands that don’t tremble, and folds it, carefully so that his face isn’t creased. He puts it into his pocket, together with a postcard he’d received from Janey, back when he’d been still on Helios.

“I’ll just get out of your hair then. I’m sure you’ve got…farming to do?” Rhys shuffles the papers into his bag, and stands up, awkwardly hunched against the too low ceiling that Timothy keeps meaning to raise someday.

“Yeah. Weeds, lots of weeds.” Timothy says, going to open the door for Rhys. “Gotta get all those weeds…out of the vegetables and stuff.”

Rhys snorts, a hilarious sound coming from that suit and that hair, and tries to cover it up with a cough. “Um, right. Weeds.”

They stand in the doorway, staring at each other awkwardly. Before the procedures, Timothy had been tall (one of the prerequisites to being Jack’s double), but he’d grown used to hunching himself to disguise his height. Then there’d been all those weeks of physical training, teaching himself to move like Jack, shoulders squared back and chest out, taking up breadth and space and attention like it came naturally to him. Then after Timothy had run away, it’d just been easier to start hunching again, curling his stupidly broad shoulders inwards and tilting his hips so he didn’t loom over everyone.

Now though, with Rhys’ eyes on him, Timothy straightens up, doesn’t exactly pull Jack’s swagger out where he’d stashed it in the back of his head, but he doesn’t slouch so much, stands firm so he can look Rhys in the eye to maintain their uncomfortable eye contact.

“I should—”

“If you ever—”

They stop, and chuckle awkwardly. Timothy makes a “go ahead” gesture at Rhys.

“If you ever need anything, feel free to contact me.” Rhys pulls out a card, and scribbles something on it before handing it out to Timothy.

“Um.” Timothy absolutely does not look around at his phoneless house, completely disconnected from the echonet and anything that even remotely resembles civilisation. “Yeah…sure thing.”

“…Right.” Rhys says, eyes darting everywhere but Timothy’s face. “Were you going to say something, earlier?”

“Oh. Yeah, I should uh, get back to weeding.” Timothy says. That’s all he’d been planning on saying, but something makes him keep going, makes him blurt out, “But if you ever need, I dunno. If you need someone good with guns? I’m pretty decent. Not so great with heights, but guns, I can do guns.” He stops himself with a conscious effort.

“Really?” Rhys says, actually looking interested at the prospect. “I might actually take you up on that. I do need someone to help out with prototype testing; my friend Vaughn usually helps me, but he’s busy running his own city now.”

Timothy hadn’t actually been expecting his offer to be taken up, but…why not? Smiling at Rhys, he sticks his hand out. “Sure. You know where to find me.”

Rhys looks down at Timothy’s hand, and there’s a pause before he takes it, a long pause in which Timothy looks down too, and realizes what his hand must look like to Rhys. Jack’s hand, large and tanned and made for killing.

“Sorry,” Rhys says, even as he reaches forwards and takes Timothy’s hand, shaking it. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t seem to realize he’s still staring down at it. “It’s just…you don’t have his tattoo.”

“Tattoo?”

“Yeah, he had one on his wrist, here…” Rhys uses his free hand to trace two fingers around Timothy’s wrist. His fingers barely brush against the bare skin there, but suddenly Timothy feels very naked. He pulls his hand back, heedless of how rude it must be.

“Ah…right. Sorry,” Rhys says again, finally breaking his gaze away from Timothy’s wrist to glance up apologetically at him. “I’ll…I’ll take my leave.”

Timothy watches the slim figure walk away, and thinks that that’s it, because he doesn’t have a phone to call Rhys with, and Rhys is never going to come back, not when Timothy’s obviously a jarring reminder of bad times. Or possibly good times. Or both.

But Rhys comes back. He drops by, two months later, and nearly gives Timothy a heart attack knocking on his door in the middle of the night. He doesn’t stay long, only long enough to apologise about the time, asks about Timothy’s garden, how the fishing is going, gives him updates on how Atlas is going, assures him that he’s still diverting resources to advance their plastic surgery tech to the old Hyperion’s levels, before he leaves, all the while casting lingering looks at Jack’s face.

Timothy says Jack’s face, because he’s not _stupid_.

The third time Rhys drops by, gives his updates, nods jerkily as he picks his bag up and prepares to leave, Timothy says, very tiredly, “I’m fine with keeping the face. You don’t need to divert any more resources, it’s okay.”

Rhys stops where he is, at the entrance to Timothy’s (now much taller) shack, but he doesn’t look back. Timothy watches his back, the stiff line of it, and wonders, suddenly and out of nowhere, if Rhys is happy.

“I want to make sure you have the option, if you ever get tired of it.” Rhys says, voice very quiet, before he leaves.

Again, Timothy thinks, that’s it, Rhys doesn’t have a reason to come back anymore.

And again, Rhys surprises him, is back on his doorstep another two months later, no papers in hand, but with a bag of seeds for Timothy’s garden.

So Timothy resigns himself to Rhys’ bimonthly visits.

Okay, that’s a lie. He looks forward to them, counts the days down, brews Rhys tea using the fruits of the seeds Rhys brings, chamomile tea, bergamot tea, thistle tea, makes sure that the couch is somewhat clean.

He’s not stupid, he knows Rhys is coming here as- as some sort of penance, some sort of self-flagellation, or worse, comes to get his bimonthly fix of Jack’s face. Timothy _knows_ , and he can’t really bring himself to care. If Rhys is willing to make the long journey from the nearest fast-travel station to the isolated edge of the peninsula that Timothy lives on, then who’s Timothy to stop him?

Also, if he’s going all out with the truthfulness thing, it just gets _lonely_ out here by himself. He misses being able to talk to someone without having to cover up his face. And Rhys is nice company; when he eases up enough to let go of his contained Atlas CEO shell, he’s kind of dorky, a little bit bitchy, and a lot of a nerd about his company’s products.

The thing is, Timothy is just selfish enough that he doesn’t try to stop Rhys from returning.

Then one day, Rhys turns up at Timothy’s gate two weeks earlier than normal, pale and shaky and the yellow of his echo-eye flickering in an alarming way.

“Rhys?” Timothy asks, standing up slowly from where he’d been weeding to squint at the unexpected figure. “Are you okay?”

Rhys laughs, short and harsh. “Yeah, I— I’m not.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Timothy ushers him into the cool darkness of his shack without any further preamble.

“Did something happen? You look kind of shaken.”

“No, nothing, I’m just.” Rhys swallows, doesn’t take his eyes off the floor. “I’m sorry, it just gets a bit much sometimes, and I-”

Timothy points him silently to his usual place on the couch, and sits opposite, waiting for Rhys to find the words. Rhys, for his part, sits with his head on his hands, and when he eventually speaks again, his words are muffled.

“Is it stupid that I miss him?”

Silence hangs in the room.

Timothy wants to say yes, that it’s stupid to miss a terrible, manipulative egomaniac, but…

“It’s stupid, I know.” Rhys scrubs at his face with his hands, and leans back against the sofa so he can stare at the ceiling. “Did I ever tell you that he tried to kill me? After everything I did for him. I trusted him, even after everything he did, over the advice of my own friends, and all I got for it was a hole in my brain and nightmares that won’t stop and the remnants of a shitty company to rebuild from scratch.”

“I get it.” Timothy says, and watches as Rhys lifts his head to stare at him with red-rimmed eyes. “It’s- easier, when Jack’s there and giving you directions and it’s like you can just…let him take over. Even though you know it’s a bad idea and probably gonna end with death and violence.”

“Yeah.” Rhys says, the skin beneath his eyes looking very bruised. “Yeah, that’s it, exactly.”

They sit in the silence for a while, and it feels kind of surreal. The sun’s still bright outside, illuminating a bright patch in the corner of the otherwise dim shack, and the buzzing of the insects fills the air. Timothy watches the way Rhys watches him, wonders about the hollow quality to Rhys’ face, and makes a decision.

He stands up, and goes to stand in front of Rhys, legs apart and shoulders straightened.

“Uh. Timothy, what are you…”

“The name’s Jack, sweetheart. I know you know that.” Timothy says, and he watches the way Rhys instinctively straightens up, the way his eyes widen and his lips part.

“Timothy, you don’t have to—”

“What’s your name, Rhys? Nah I don’t like that, I’m gonna call you Rhysie, _that’s_ more like it. Rolls off the tongue better, yunno what I mean?” Timothy leans down, and wraps Jack’s hand around the side of Rhys’ neck, thumb pushing on the underside of his chin so Rhys is forced to lift his head. He can feel the way Rhys’ pulse flutters against his fingers, and when Rhys swallows, hard, his Adam’s apple bobs, sharp against Timothy’s palm.

“Tell me, Rhysie. Tell me what you want.”

Rhys’ eyes flutter shut, and his tongue comes out to lick at his parted lips, but he doesn’t speak.

Timothy slowly presses down, increasing the pressure against Rhys’ throat, and waits.

“Timothy. Stop.” Rhys’ voice is very steady, even as his pulse flutters against Timothy’s fingers.

Timothy lets go as if burned, and stumbles back a few steps, confused. “I- sorry, that’s what I thought you wanted?” He continues backing away, but it’s only three more steps until his back hits the other side of the shack.

Rhys’ silver hand comes up to rub at his throat, and he smiles, sad and a little wistful. “I did. But I’m not going to make you pretend to be the person who took your identity away from you. Thank you, though.”

Timothy doesn’t move. There’s confusion, and a bit of worry, and something like relief, but mostly he’s wondering, if Rhys doesn’t want him to act like Jack, then why is he…

“I’m not here to ask you to be Jack,” Rhys says. “I’m sorry if that’s the impression you got.” He shakes his head. “Okay, no, that might have been part of the reason at first, but not now. I come here because you’re the only other person I know who gets it. And because your tea is nice. And your garden is nice. And…you, you’re nice too?” His voice gets uncertain, and when he glances up at Timothy his face is flushed.

“You’re nice too,” Timothy parrots back, for lack of anything better to say.

It seems to work though, Rhys’ lips quirk up, and he smiles more genuinely at Timothy.

“Sorry again,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to be Jack. You’re not him, I know that.”

There’s a warm feeling in Timothy’s chest that he tries not to examine too hard.

“I can, you know.” He says, watching as Rhys turns a quizzical look on him. “It’s really not that hard, and I don’t mind doing it. For you.”

Rhys’ eyes soften, and turn contemplative. “I…I’m not going to say that I’ll never need to take you up on that offer,” he says slowly, every word measured. “Because that would be a lie. But…thank you. It means a lot to me. Really.”

Timothy shrugs. There’s really nothing more he can say to that.

“I should go,” Rhys stands up, and steps closer to Timothy, digging around in his bag. “I’m not supposed to be down here right now, I’ve actually got a meeting with the Maliwan representative in two hours, but…it’s Jack’s birthday today, _was_ Jack’s birthday, and a few groups of people were celebrating, and it all got a bit…” He trails off, digging more vigorously in his bag. “I’m pretty sure I brought it, where even- oh! Here.”

Timothy takes the proffered bundle automatically, and looks between it and Rhys.

“Uh, it’s from Athena and Janey. I’m not sure what it is, but when they found out I was in contact with you, they asked me to pass it on. Also Janey says you’re invited to their wedding, it’s in five months, the details should be in there, and I really gotta go, but see you in two weeks?” Rhys steps back, and hovers uncertainly near the doorway.

“Yeah,” Timothy says. “Yeah, see you.”

Rhys grins, soft and lopsided and dorky, and Timothy is suddenly hit with the desire to kiss him, to find out what that mouth feels like pressed against his own. Then the door closes behind Rhys, and it doesn’t take long before there’s the sound of Rhys’ car starting up and then fading away.

“ _Shit_.” Timothy says, staring down at the parcel in his hands.

It turns out to be a sweater, hand knit by Athena, according to the letter Janey had tucked inside.

When Rhys comes by, two weeks later, Timothy’s wearing the (kind of lumpy, but surprisingly comfortable) sweater over his canvas trousers, and has a letter for Athena and Janey which thanks them for the sweater, and lets them know that he’ll definitely be there for their wedding.

“Yeah sure I can hand this over to them for you,” Rhys says, taking the letter and tucking it carefully into his bag. “Are you sure you don’t wanna visit them yourself though?”

“Maybe next time,” Timothy says.

“Alright,” Rhys says agreeably, and takes the mug of chamomile tea Timothy offers him. His hands brush against Timothy’s, and it takes a huge amount of concentration for Timothy to keep the mug steady until Rhys takes it from him.

He’d wondered if Rhys’ most recent visit might make things awkward, but instead, some kind of barrier seems to have been brought down between them. Rhys is more casual, a looseness to his movements as he tells Timothy all about how the wedding planning is going. This time, before he leaves, he presses a small notebook into Timothy’s hands.

“Athena mentioned that you liked to write when you were not on missions, so I thought you might like to have something to write in. It _should_ fit into your pocket, so you can take it when you go fishing and stuff.” Rhys’ hands linger as he curls Timothy’s fingers around the notebook, then he’s gone, the coolness of his fingers lingering on Timothy’s hands in the heat of the Pandoran summer.

Two months later, when Rhys nervously asks if Timothy would like to go for Janey and Athena’s wedding with Rhys, Timothy says yes, and wonders if it would be too obvious if he wrote Rhys into the story he’s writing. Maybe if he turned Rhys into a bear, it’d be less obvious…?

Then he’s distracted by the way Rhys is smiling at his mug of lemon tea, small and pleased and-

Before he knows it, Timothy’s leaning forward and taking Rhys’ mug away from him to set it on the coffee table. This close, Rhys smells like the lemon tea he’s been drinking, and beneath it, like engine grease and something warm and mellow and sweet. Timothy lingers, not daring to tip his head those last few inches forwards, so it’s Rhys who closes the final gap, presses his lips to Timothy’s own, and pulls him into a kiss.

Rhys tastes like lemons, and his lips are soft against Timothy’s own as they curve into a smile.

When they break apart, they’re both grinning, and Timothy can’t help but duck back in for another kiss, and then another, curling his hands around Rhys’ shoulders as he tastes lemon and Rhys’ laughter against his mouth. Rhys’ silver hand is cool against his neck, but his left hand is warm, and his fingers are gentle as they pull Timothy in, tilt his head, and guide him in for yet another slow, sweet kiss.

Outside, the insects are buzzing.

\---

Three months later, Rhys hands Timothy a small clip, and shows him how to hook it over his ear so that the mask it projects out covers his entire face. It turns out to be something similar to the cloaking technology Timothy had helped Jack acquire, a lifetime ago in the R&D section of Helios. Rhys assures him that the batteries should be long enough to last for both days of the wedding without needing to be recharged, and that the mask should look lifelike enough for the strangers at the wedding.

“Anybody who’s gonna come close enough to realize it’s a mask will probably be people who already know the full story,” Rhys says, cool hand lingering on Timothy’s ear before he pulls back and starts readjusting his tie.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Timothy offers, when it becomes clear that Rhys has absolutely no idea how to fix his tie. He undoes it and starts retying it for Rhys, fingers sliding through the smooth gold silk easily. When he’s done, he smooths it down Rhys’ chest, and looks up to catch Rhys staring at him with something like wonder in his eyes.

Timothy feels a flush rise on his cheeks, whether at Rhys’ expression, or their physical closeness, he doesn’t know. Possibly both. He resists the urge to step back, and instead keeps his gaze and fingers on Rhys’ tie.

“Thanks for the mask. I- um, it’s very kind of you,” he says, and clears his throat. “We should get going.”

Rhys catches Timothy’s hands before he can pull away, and leans forward to kiss him. When Timothy finally pulls away, he sees his own flush mirrored on Rhys’ cheeks, and he grins helplessly at what the two of them must look like right now.

“Come on, before Janey sends Tina out to find us,” Timothy says, stepping back and turning his hand so he can catch Rhys’ fingers with his own.

The wedding ceremony is…somewhat unceremonious. Moxxi, customary top hat replaced with a ridiculously elaborate headdress, officiates in a deliberately breathy voice about all the wonders of marital bliss that await Athena and Janey. Tina flings bullet casings everywhere as she precedes the happy couple down the aisle, and Brick, who’s somehow managed to rip the sleeves off his tux, follows behind them, tossing flowers everywhere to fall on everybody’s head.

Timothy, tucked into the back in the corner with Rhys beside him, studiously avoids everybody’s gaze, and keeps his eyes on Athena and Janey. Athena, drop dead beautiful in a white lace and silk dress with her hair pinned up, practically glows with happiness every time she looks at Janey. Which means she’s glowing practically all the time, what with the way she can’t keep her eyes off her wife-to-be. Janey, on her part, is in a solid white two-piece dress that doesn’t try to hide the scars on her slim waist, which in typical Janey fashion, she’s highlighted with glitter. And Janey, naturally, can’t stop staring at Athena either.

They walk down the aisle to where a beaming and buxom Moxxi awaits them, grinning at each other dopily the entire time, while a line of singing Claptraps are browbeaten into a somewhat tuneless rendition of “Here comes the Bride” by an intimidating looking woman.

“That’s Fiona,” Rhys murmurs in Timothy’s ear. “Her sister Sasha’s the one who was at the front desk.”

Seated at the front, Nurse Nina is full on _bawling_ , wiping at her face with a hanky the size of a tablecloth, and clutching at her boyfriend’s hand so hard that Timothy winces in sympathy, even as he tries to pretend he’s not sniffing either. A gentle nudge at his side catches his attention, and he looks down to see Rhys offering him a handkerchief, which he takes because his suit had been borrowed from Rhys, and he doesn't want to drip tears on it.

The wedding ceremony doesn’t last long, because Janey cuts Moxxi’s speech short with a “Let me kiss my wife already, Mox!!” and follows it up with swooping Athena into her arms and kissing the living daylights out of her while Tina wolf-whistles, and everybody else cheers.

Everybody heads towards the buffet tables after that, but once he’s given his good wishes to the happy couple, Timothy makes his excuses, and heads up early to the room he’s sharing with Rhys. He doesn’t miss the disappointment in Rhys’ eyes, feels the weight of them heavy on the back of his neck, until Rhys gets distracted by a short man with a bun, possibly the Vaughn Rhys keeps talking about.

Relieved, Timothy ducks into the building, and makes his way back to their room. The hubbub of the people outside is muted like this, and he feels his shoulders relax from where they’d been tensed throughout the entire ceremony.

Once inside their room, he takes one look at the bed, pristine and neat, and goes over to lie on the sofa instead, where he promptly falls asleep, the exhaustion of travel and of being around _so many_ people hitting him like a hammer to the face.

He doesn’t know how long he’s slept, but when he’s woken up by gentle, cool fingers taking the mask’s clip off his ear, the sunlight streaming in from the windows has taken on an orange-purple tinge, making the entire room feel hazy and quiet.

“Shh, go back to sleep.” Rhys’ voice is warm, and just the tiniest bit slurred.

“It’s okay.” Timothy sits up and yawns, rubbing at his face with one hand. “How was the buffet?”

“Mm, good. Free flow of wine.” Rhys smiles, and thumps heavily down next to Timothy. “Sorry I woke you up. Here, lie back down.” He pulls ineffectually at Timothy’s shoulders until Timothy obliges, and lets himself be pulled into lying with his head in Rhys’ lap and legs dangling off the other end of the sofa.

Rhys’ lap is warm, but his fingers are cool as they brush against Timothy’s forehead and face before going to thread through his hair. Timothy finds himself relaxing into the unfamiliar sensations, curling closer to Rhys’ body. Above him, Rhys starts humming something, muted and off-key, as he starts braiding Timothy’s hair, loose little braids that fall apart back into curls once he lets go.

“You have white hair,” Rhys says, sounding vaguely surprised. “In the same place he did, but it wasn’t part of the surgeries, was it?”

“I do?” Timothy shrugs, not really concerned. “Maybe he knew he was gonna go grey early.”

“Mm.” Rhys starts braiding again. “When I was…the Jack I knew was a hologram. All blue and see-through. You couldn’t really see the white hair like that.”

Timothy doesn’t say anything, taken by surprise. Rhys doesn’t talk about Jack often. Or at all, other than that one time.

“What was he like, with you?” Rhys asks, still playing with Timothy’s hair.

It takes Timothy a while, but he finally settles on: “Creepy. He used to hit on me, but it was like he was hitting on _himself_.”

Above him, Rhys snorts, a sound that turns into a drunken giggle. “Sounds just like him.”

“But also, he always knew what he was doing. At first. He really seemed like a hero, you know?”

“…Yeah.” Rhys’ voice is soft, sad and a little wistful. “I remember.”

They stay like that as the light turns darker, the purple slipping into blue into dark until eventually the only things illuminating the room are Rhys’ echo-eye and a faint pinprick of light from Timothy’s mask-clip, lying on the side table. When Timothy summons the energy to turn his head and look at Rhys, he realizes that Rhys has fallen asleep, one hand in Timothy’s hair and the other curled around his shoulder, head tilted against the back of the couch and giving Timothy a really excellent view up his nostrils. Even as he watches, a faint snore starts bubbling out of Rhys.

Smiling to himself, Timothy gets up off Rhys’ lap, dislodging Rhys’ hands with care, and moves to pick Rhys up even more carefully so he can bring him to the bed. Rhys, probably lulled by the wine and the long journey, doesn’t stir except to press his face against Timothy’s shoulder and sigh as Timothy carries him over to the bed.

He gently eases Rhys down off his arms and onto the bed, and bends down to take his shoes off for him. When he stands back up to pull the sheets over Rhys, he’s startled by the soft glow of Rhys’ echo-eye, watching him half-dazedly.

“Go to sleep, Rhys,” Timothy whispers, and pulls the sheet up, tucks it around Rhys’ shoulders.

“Mm. Jack…” Rhys mumbles as he curls into the pillow. Timothy freezes, heart thudding through the sudden clenching feeling in his chest. Then Rhys continues mumbling. “Not…you’re better than Jack. I like you.”

Timothy stays there, still looming awkwardly over Rhys, as the clenching feeling in his chest eases up, but his heart continues to thud, so loud he fancies his bones are shaking with every thump. Rhys’ snoring breaks the spell, and he finally manages to step back.

He makes his way back to the couch, and settles down on it, arms crossed beneath his head for a pillow. Better than Jack, huh? He can live with that.

Grinning up at the ceiling, Timothy lets himself fall into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Timothy thinks Rhys needs him to pretend to be Jack, so he puts on his Jack persona and kinda sorta doms Rhys for like 10 seconds until Rhys puts a stop to it. No actual sexual content.
> 
> ps: [This](http://sjwbitcoins.tumblr.com/post/138262900930/cropped-this-out-of-a-bigger-picture-bc-i-cbf) is what I used as ref for Athena and Janey's wedding dresses
> 
> pps: I'm ssealdog on tumblr come cry w me over fictional nerds


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